


Inappropriate

by nonelvis



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonelvis/pseuds/nonelvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP, in which Rose decides to give things "a little push."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a nice, simple, straight-up bit of pornography. And then my brain went all ... _smartass_ on me. Hope you like your smut with a sense of humor.

The Doctor is relaxing on the library's green velvet settee, re-reading a trashy 20th century science fiction novel, when Rose, wearing what appears to be a silk robe designed to fit a Barbie doll, walks over to him and coughs discreetly, waiting for his attention.

He has been thinking inappropriate thoughts about Rose for almost as long as he's known her. All she has to do is glance at him sideways, and he's spun around in the most thrilling and worrisome way, desperate to kiss her despite being tangibly aware of her youth and transience.

He prefers to think of himself as a man not given to these sorts of thoughts, even if, truth be told, he's had them about nearly every person he's travelled with. There's a chasm of difference between thoughts and actions, though, a Grand Canyon's worth of difference, and he's only crossed it a few times. Twice. Not more than four times. Say, an even half-dozen. The number doesn't matter, really; it's controlling those inappropriate thoughts that is important, and also astoundingly difficult to do when Rose is, by his calculation, 62.5 percent naked.

Her breasts are at eye level, and that is definitely not helping. The peach-coloured robe is tight across them, tight enough that the half-moons of flesh spilling out more than give him an idea of what a full moon might look like, and he observes two taut peaks his impudent brain christens Mons Huygens and Mons Hadley.

The scrap of fabric Rose is wearing ends what can't be more than a couple of inches below her buttocks, leaving him with an uninterrupted view of her smooth, pink thighs. And then there's the sash of the robe, tied into a haphazard bow at the waist, the ends hanging straight down to the very forbidden centre point between her legs.

He refuses to be distracted. He is just getting to his favourite part of the book, the bit where the brilliant young scientist has a breakthrough about a new method for compactifying superstring dimensions, which always makes him laugh since every Gallifreyan child knew there are thirty-seven distinct, noncompactible dimensions in space-time.

He soon realises he has read the same sentence three times since Rose appeared, and yet has no idea what it said.

"Rose," the Doctor says, trying to remain calm, "is there something I can do for you?"

She grins wickedly, and he understands too late that he has asked the right question in the worst possible way, as she plucks the book from his hands, drops it upside-down on the side table, and straddles his lap, draping her arms behind his neck to trap him in his seat.

Rose leans over and curls the tip of her tongue around his right earlobe. She sucks it into her mouth, nipping and kissing at it, and he shivers, his eyes fluttering shut. She is not supposed to be doing this. He is in no way supposed to be enjoying it. His brain tries to convey this critical message to the rest of his body, and utterly, utterly fails, because his hands lift from the safety of the settee to rim Rose's waist, holding her in place.

"Ah, Rose," he starts, his voice cracking. "You haven't by any chance inhaled any Morellian daisy pollen? Not that I've ever taken you to Morellia, mind you, so I don't know how you could have found any in the first place, but I should probably check regardless."

She pulls away from his earlobe and begins teasing him at the pulse point just below, her lips barely hovering above his skin and tickling the fine hairs on his neck. It feels like the tingly resistance of an ionic energy field.

"No," she answers, her voice humming against him.

"Drunk anything from that locked cabinet in my study? The red stuff in the octagonal bottle?"

A swirl of her tongue along his throat. "No."

"Possessed by Cassandra again? Or possibly a giant snake?" Rose's fingers are not undoing his tie, he tells himself. They cannot possibly be, because that would mean he isn't stopping this decidedly unsubtle seduction attempt before things go any further, and he cannot allow that.

She frees his tie from his collar and loops it about her own neck. "No, and no. And yuck." One hand unbuttons the top of his shirt, while another strokes his hair, and worse, her mouth has found his left earlobe and is making sure it doesn't feel neglected. His body is starting to react in other, more obvious ways than his quickened breathing and he wonders when and how he lost control of the situation. Probably when he first invited her on board, he figures.

"Rose," he says, one rebellious hand drifting down to her bottom, and damned if she doesn't arch into it, driving parts of her against parts of him that would like to get to know her quite a lot better. "Rose, it's not that I don't appreciate your enthusiasm – it's really rather ... engaging ... but it _is_ a little bit of a surprise. And you know me, love surprises, especially those really, really unexpected surprises" – as he surprises himself by whimpering when she traces his ear with that dangerously nimble tongue – "but before I end up doing something I'll almost certainly enjoy and hope not to regret, could you at least tell me _oh how did you know about that spot ...?_"

"Found it in a book."

"That's it," he says. "You're never using the library unsupervised again."

"Fine by me," she smirks, removing his glasses and placing them safely out of the way on the side table. Her lips skate along his jawline, her hand dives deeper under his shirt, and whatever ambivalence he's been feeling about this encounter has long since evolved into those familiar and inappropriate desires. But still –

"Rose," he sighs, knowing he has to make one last attempt to end this, difficult though it is to pry his hand away from her arse. He takes her by the shoulders and guides her upright so he can look her in the eye. "Rose. Rose. Rose. _Stop._"

She meets his stare so directly that either she's lying about having drunk the red stuff, or she must be telling the truth. "I know what I'm doing, yeah?" she says. "I'm just tired of ... well, I've been waiting for you to ... I guess I thought things might go easier if I gave 'em a little push."

He blinks at her. "If this is your idea of a 'little push,' I think I'm grateful you're not trying harder. I'd have been flat on my back in the console room, eh?" Wincing, he adds, "I'm just giving you more ideas now, aren't I?"

"Nah, came up with that one already," Rose says. "I thought the metal grating might hurt. This couch is much nicer." She wriggles a bit on top of him, sending another jolt through his body.

He takes a couple of seconds to run through his list. Not drugged, drunk, possessed, coerced – check. Secretly replaced by autonomous sex android – unlikely, unless it's clever enough to fool fourteen of his senses. Temporary insanity – possible, especially when he factors Jackie's DNA into the equation, but still improbable.

Which leads him to three conclusions: this is really Rose; she really wants him; and he really, really wants her. And if all three of these conclusions are accurate, then every additional second he spends analysing the situation is a second he could have been snogging the hell out of her.

Snogging is far, far better than thinking, he decides, and pulls her down to kiss her. All that kissing she did a few minutes ago, and not once was it on his lips, clearly an oversight on her part and one he plans to take his time correcting.

Rose has tasted of waxy lip gloss in his inappropriate little fantasies, and he discovers that reality isn't terribly different, just wetter and saltier and with an occasional squeak and hitched breath that is even sexier than what he has imagined. That playful tongue of hers slides across his lower teeth, sneaks inside his mouth for a particularly friendly greeting, and entwines itself with his, drawing it closer. She never did remove that hand from his shirt, even while they were talking, and now it pops open a few more buttons and circles his right nipple gently, so gently, as if she were using a feather, a kink he reminds himself to explore next time. Because there will be a next time, once they finish with this time, and he decides it will be her turn to be caught off-guard.

Kissing Rose is – well, the first word that comes to mind is "fun," which is a significant improvement over "startling" for Kiss #2 and "fatal" for Kiss #1. He's enjoying not just the kissing part, which is good enough as it is, what with the softness of her lips and the mild soap scent of her skin and the hand caressing his neck; there's also the slippery silk between his palms and her body, and the tantalising way she's rocking against him.

Abruptly, Rose draws herself up, leaving him with his eyes closed and face tilted towards her, mid-kiss. He opens his eyes and frowns. "I wasn't done with you yet."

"Neither am I," she says, and clambers off him, repositioning herself on the floor between his legs. She unfastens his trousers, bunching them down to his knees, and envelops him in the warm velvet of her mouth. He gasps in shock and pleasure.

He wants to tell her how unexpected and _good_ this is, her lips and tongue gliding along his cock, but suddenly the speech centres of his gigantic brain are full of nothing but useless grunts and monosyllables that roughly translate as "please, Rose, don't ever, ever stop what you're doing." The best he can do to communicate is weave his fingers in her hair, stroking her head in motions that start out tender and slow, then become fierce and quick as her mouth grows busier. The suction she'd been applying to his earlobes earlier was merely a tiny taste of her power, he discovers; she's spiralling around the tip now, a smooth, insistent pressure building up the tension within him. When she reaches a hand between his legs to cup his balls and thread her index finger behind them, he gives a deep groan and thrusts forward into her mouth, so overwhelmed by sensation it takes him a moment to realise that if this continues much longer, he's going to come, and come hard.

For the second time this evening he halts Rose in her tracks. He calls her name and pushes her back gently, touching her cheek to show his approval for what she's been doing, even as she releases him. He shivers, feeling the cooler air on his cock, and then again as Rose – apparently as reluctant as he is to close out this agenda item of hers – teases her finger back and forth along his perineum before finally resting her hand on his knee.

Her hair is a right mess now, frizzy strands haloed in all directions; her cheeks are flushed, her mouth moist and probably still tasting of him, something he'd like to confirm for himself. Rose rises to her feet, and his hands drop to the sash on her robe, loosing the knot so that the silk folds open to reveal her. She shrugs off the garment, letting it pool on the floor.

In all his fantasies, he's been suave and debonair, always with a smart quip at the ready and the perfect turn of phrase to make her tumble into his arms. In reality, seeing her naked, those breasts as lush as he'd expected, the musky scent of that triangular thatch between her legs hinting of what he knows will happen next, leaves him speechless, and he hopes that actions will suffice if language cannot.

He grabs his tie, still dangling from her neck like a scarf, and uses it to pull her, laughing, back onto his lap. Rose braces one hand on the settee's wooden rail, the other on his neck, leans in to kiss him again and again. She rubs herself against him, her pussy sliding slickly across his cock, and all at once he's so hard that he worries things will be over far too soon. Rose, he finds, has no such fear, because after another sweet, tortuous minute of writhing, she reaches down and guides him inside her.

She inhales sharply as he slips in, and he pauses, immobile, trying to compose himself before he begins.

One thrust, and he leans forward to twirl his tongue around a nipple until it stiffens and crinkles, then brings it back down to size with a rush of heat from his mouth. Breasts are a terrific invention, he decides, as he plants kisses at the side of this one while exploring the curves of the other one with his hand. They're soft and springy and responsive to his lightest touch, a touch Rose seems to appreciate, given the noises she's making and the way she's grinding against him now.

A second thrust, and Rose has tugged his mouth away from her breasts, back to her lips. She kisses him deep and long and greedily, scratches her nails along his scalp until he moans. He feels a coil tautening within him, almost ready to release.

A third thrust, more ragged than before, and he squeezes two fingers between their bodies, working Rose's clit while she uses the settee back for leverage to rock herself on his lap. He licks the sweat droplets between her breasts, can taste how close she is.

A fourth thrust, and Rose yells, nearly screams as she clenches around his cock, her entire body shaking as she comes. She never stops moving above him, pressing herself into his fingers, holding his head tight to her chest while he sucks and bites at a nipple.

A fifth, and he's gone now too, driven over the edge by the shudders of Rose's body. He groans, clutching at her back to keep her moving, keep dragging the orgasm out of him.

When everything finally slows down, he is panting against her breasts, his eyes closed, and Rose is resting her chin on top of his head, tenderly stroking his hair. She shifts above him, and he slides out of her with a sigh.

Eventually he recovers enough to raise his head and look at her. There are damp tendrils of hair plastered to her face; her cheeks are red and blotchy; and her lips are curiously pale now that he's kissed all the gloss off them. She has never looked more beautiful.

"Rose Tyler," he says, grinning. "I believe you just seduced me."

She feigns guilt about as well as he feigns modesty, her eyes not meeting his, and a faint but distinctly naughty smile on her face. "Mmm, I suppose I did."

"I was sitting here, minding my own business, reading a book – good for improving the mind, that – and _you_" – he pokes her chest – "seduced me."

Rose repeats the earlobe trick she used to such great success earlier in the evening, sucking one into her mouth and tickling it with her tongue until the Doctor makes small noises of happiness. "Not like you made it that difficult," she says.

Two can play the distraction game as easily as one, and he pinches her right nipple between his fingers, rolling it back and forth, then blows so gently on it Rose trembles. "I should be quite distressed about this situation. Quite, quite distressed," he says. He runs his mouth along the top of her breast, tilts it up to take in its peak, then pulls back to admire how effectively he's diverted her; very effectively, judging by the increased pace of her heart and her breathing. "I think you should apologise – no, actually, I think you should make amends somehow for this tremendously inappropriate breach of our friendship." As a final distraction, he lets a hand drift to her bottom again, grazing his fingers across the skin to give her gooseflesh. "Now, how exactly do you plan to make this up to me?"

Rose leans down and brushes his lips with hers. "I've got some ideas," she says, and his body buzzes with anticipation. "How's this for a start?"

He never does finish reading his book that night.


End file.
